The Weichmann Hotel, Amsterdam.
Although, I have just returned from Amsterdam, I didn't stay at the Weichmann Hotel. At least not on this visit, but it was there in 1979 at the tender age of fourteen I met up with a rather wild rock'n'roll band from New York called, wait for it... Stumblebunny, and my life was to take something of a dramatic turn. But enough of the memoirs - which, if ever I sell the Hampstead Village Voice for a princely sum - will be published whilst we're all still all alive.
Meanwhile, running two magazines (and a locals loyalty card scheme) leaves little time for writing memoirs - let alone novels, but it will be done! I do love Hampstead and the mags, but have a feeling in my loins that there are bigger fish to fry in the not too distant future.
My plan is to sell the magazine empire (Ed. Errr, 14 newsagents, a supermarket and a book shop. Empire?) whilst continuing to only edit the Hampstead Village Voice on a semi-relaxed, part-time basis thus allowing me to write a thrilling book or two or even three.
What was it someone said about God laughing at our plans?
More importantly, I shall be attending a small private concert tonight with some guitarist geezer and his mates. Eric somebody or other... Clackton? Clapham? You know, that bloke who ran off with George's missus. I'm even hoping Gringo Starr might also be there as, if he isn't, I'll have something to be disappointed about (Ed - How very Ringo of you).
In the meantime, I better had go and humbly check the poster-boards haven't been hijacked by the Daily Torygraph, Financial Crimes or Himm & Heil Express... Splitters!
Emmanuel Mustafa Goldstein
Enemigo de Gran Hermano